


guilt

by hikki (rosecaffelatte)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Emotional Hurt, Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Immigrant Struggles, Inner Dialogue, Inner Struggle, One Shot, POV First Person, Reality, Short One Shot, am i projecting? just a little bit really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecaffelatte/pseuds/hikki
Summary: ☾ forced responsibility and internal struggle☾ angst | ojiro aran and family☾ 1.3k words
Kudos: 4





	guilt

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ crossposted on [tumblr](https://rosecaffelatte.tumblr.com/post/643955406472904704/guilt) and [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/1031346118-guilt-an-ojiro-aran-drabble-%E2%98%81%EF%B8%8E)  
> ✧ [gif](https://frailuta.tumblr.com/post/190373752221/makoto-shinkai-snow) by frailuta  
> ✧ please do not repost, re-upload or translate under any circumstances, thank you ♡  
> 

  
  


My name is Aran, Aran Ojiro. 

I was born and raised in Southern Japan in the prefecture Hyōgo.

Winter is here. February to be exact.

What are your first thoughts when you hear “February”? Cold weather? Playing in the snow? Probably Valentine’s Day, your birthday, a national holiday. Or actually nothing in particular?

Doesn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t mean anything to people our age.

Wanna know what I think of when February is approaching?

“Honey! Could you help me with something?”

Stress.

“Honey!”

I push myself away from my desk where I’ve been studying for the upcoming test in homemaking. Who would have ever thought they would test children’s cooking skills...

Slowly, I drag my feet over to the kitchen but make sure to quickly grab the bilingual dictionary from the shelf in the hallway. Considering her tone and what month it is, I already know why she’s calling me.

I hear my little brother in the living room, talking and playing by himself with his toys. We are only a few years apart but the difference is immense. He looks so small to me, fragile even though he is absolutely not.

Through the opaque glass that is embedded in the kitchen door, I can see a very colorful spot where our wooden dinner table should be. I let out a small sigh and push the door handle.

Sheets, documents, letters of various colors are spread all over the table. Two big folders are overflowing with unsorted paper. Behind all this mess sits my mom, desperately trying to decipher what the sender of the letter in her hands wants from her. 

“Honey, come here.” She waves me over to her. “Can you translate this for me? I can never understand what the tax office wants from me.”

Yup. It’s tax return time.

I walk over to her, put the dictionary on a less occupied spot on the table, and let my mother put the letter and various other documents into my hands. She doesn’t notice my slightly irritated expression.

“And this one right here... we got this in the mail earlier this month if you don’t mind. Also, can you search for the documents I have to send in for the tax return?

Do you know how long this will take because you and dad never bother to organize your documents?

“Mom, I’ve probably explained–”

“I know, I know, my dear,” she holds up her hands in defeat, “but it’s just way too complicated. I can’t even read all the kanjis.”

“And you think _I_ can?”

“What? Don’t you pay attention in Japanese class?” she asks, visibly taken aback that I am not able to read all Chinese characters at my age. 

I don’t even wanna think back to all the times I’ve tried to explain to her that you need a whole middle school career in Japan to be able to comprehend these documents. Whatever, they never listen anyway, so don’t bother.

Oh, the dictionary? Haha, I don’t know why I am fooling myself.

“Mom, I have explained this process to you multiple times. Why don’t you use that dictionary? If you need help, I’m happy to but–”

But what?

‘I can’t take care of everything until you and dad die. Now, would you excuse me, I want to go back to my room, living out my childhood, and leave all this paperwork with a guilty conscience to you that you’ll mess up in some way and, in the end, I have to fix?’

I won’t say it out loud, I’m not stupid. I’m not an emotionally deprived bastard with no sense of empathy. 

Just put yourself in my parent’s shoes: You leave your family, your friends, your home, everything you know for your entire life behind for a better life opportunity, for a better future for your partner and future children. However, after years of trying to become a part of this new society, learning the language, assimilating to this new culture, you will still encounter obstacles. And who do you ask for help? Your oldest son who grows up in this exact society and culture, of course. Does it feel great to depend on your child for paperwork? Probably not.

“Mom, can you just stay here with me? We’ll go through everything together then.”

Stay with me. 

_Teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime,_ right? 

“Oh, I will! I will be right,” she stands up and walks to the other side of the kitchen, “here behind the stove. I have to make dinner. Your dad is coming from work soon. Oh, can you help me later with peeling potatoes and carrots once you’re done?” She kneels down to the container of said produce that’s stored next to the fridge.

“No mom, I mean you sitting here on this chair right next to me.” I even kick the chair leg to push the chair back for her to sit down. 

“I can’t, honey, I–“

Suddenly, we hear a loud thump coming from the living room. Crying.

I can only catch a glimpse of my mom dashing out of the room and leaving the door open. From what I can see is that she’s holding my brother, walking around the living room, trying to calm him down from whatever happened.

In the end, I only gave a man a fish for the day.

My mom is a beautiful woman, but you cannot miss how much life has drained her over the last few years. Not only is she responsible for the household and for us. She works part-time too.

Wondering where my dad is? At work, doing overtime. As usual.

There have been times where he didn’t come home until 10 pm. I remember multiple nights where mom and dad had a fight because she was left alone with me and my little brother for basically the whole day. He says it was because of work. My mom didn’t like it. 

I actually asked my friends in fourth grade about their parents. It’s normal. Some of them are even left alone until 8 pm when both of their parents are working and when their grandparents don’t live in the vicinity where they can’t be dropped off.

Social drinking with your colleagues. If you don’t participate, you’ll become an outcast at your workplace. Stupid. And a textbook example of a culture shock for my parents. But do you think my parents have a choice?

My mom and my dad cannot allow themselves to slip up. _We_ cannot allow any slip-ups. Because we’re not native Japanese or don’t look like it. Because we’re black. That’s what they always tell me. Well, not exactly like that, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they mean.

“Oh, baby, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be fine. Mommy is here.” My mom is now walking the hallway up and down. He’s still crying. It’ll take some time until he calms down.

I take a look at all the documents that are spread in front of me. I reach out for the first folder where I know I have sorted the notice of income tax assessment last time and heave it over to me. During that process, some sheets of paper are about the slide out of the folder. That’s not how I left it last time. Upon opening it, I see documents I don’t recognize from last time, lazily squished between the sheets I have neatly punched and filed. I find the document I’m looking for. 

A February thing? I wish. This has become a part of my normal routine, it’s just more stressful during February. Worst part? I don’t see an end in sight.

The ticking of the clock above the door fills the room while I fill out the papers.

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock. 

8 pm.

Winter is here.

February 2006 to be exact.

My name is Aran Ojiro.

I am 12 years old.


End file.
